The beginning

There is something that ticks inside the minds of us all. It’s the very thing that describes us and yet breathes life into our very existence. It’s the telling of who we really are and all the things that make us. When you take each of those elements and put them together it forms this incredible story, so unique that it can only be derived as uniquely as is your own finger print. Most stories never get written, or told for that matter. They are lived and then forgotten, just as quickly as they came to be. It’s incredible to think of all those lost books, all those untold stories, that lie hidden beneath layers of dirt or became the ash tucked inside a fancy jar. What become of all those stories, and where do they go? It’s evident that the very depth at which these stories thrived has already left their imprint upon this world. Those imprints became their own chapters fragmented by the loss of the original story. So, with that, I say it’s a disservice to live and not tell. How sad it must be to pick up a book with the middle or end missing. What do you ever truly know… Nothing